Camping Out In Wyoming
It was just another camping trip with friends. A gathering, a return to nature, to get a taste of what life was like in the Wyoming forests and plains before Napoleon Bonaparte sold it to Thomas Jefferson in 1803. The transaction should have been called the Cheyenne Purchase except the Indian tribes never got a dime. I guess if the Purchase occurred today, President Obama would be forced to buy Wyoming from the Powder River Coal Company.
But, back to our campers, Roy and Regina had moved into the first class seats of camping. Like their friends, they brought Tabasco sauce to season, T-bones to grill, potato chips to munch on, sausage, eggs and libations of all kinds and heavy-duty lawn chairs.
As for their accommodations, they eschewed camping under the stars. Roy had Boy Scout tendencies and packed his brand new tipi outfitter’s tent; big enough to sleep four, though they numbered only two.
The model of tipi he bought did not include a floor and the cover was a heavy-duty, lightweight, waterproofed polyester, guaranteed to be the envy of any pioneer. It had an adjustable smoke hole should one need to warm the tent.
Harking back to his Cub Scout days he tied two saplings together and incorporated them into his tent erection. Regina asked if he should tie-off the lightweight polyester flaps to a tree or two, pointing out that this was Wyoming, whose state bird is the windsock and whose capital once was Scottsbluff till it just blew over there. Roy assured her this would work, and he flashed his kindling merit badge.
The group had a grand evening. Roy went to the tent and lit the wood burning portable camp stove he had placed between their two cots. Soon they retired. He drifted off into dreams of the cubby handshake and mumbling, “…I will do my best to do my duty…to obey the scout law…ZZZZZZ…”
Regina was restless. The rustling of the leaves soon became a persistent breeze. The lightweight polyester began to spread its wings, then flapped like someone changing a sheet! She blinked and suddenly she was under the stars!
Behind her, the tent containing the portable camp stove took a deep breath and lit the heavy-duty, lightweight, waterproofed but…apparently flammable polyester tent.
Roy jumped up, clad in his skivvies, and attacked the fire with bottles of water and cans of beer; grabbing, opening and racing back and forth in front of the fire! He minced and pirouetted, hopping and whooping like an Arapahoe brave with Tourette’s Syndrome. Finally he lifted the cooler full of ice and heaved it onto the polyester cremation!
They spent the night in the truck. As they recalled the story at breakfast next morning, someone mentioned Kevin Costner. “Costner?” asked Roy.
“Yeah, Dances With Flames.”
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